


Three sheets and counting.

by millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Drinking Games, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 02:51:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10688280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: Sam's not above cheating to win a bet, not when Dean's ego needs a little deflating.





	Three sheets and counting.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the spnspringfling 2017. Reveals are finally up. Thank you to jj1564 for the beta and encouragement! Nothing but crack here! Written for boysinthedrift.

Dean’s eyes roll back in his head as he tries, unsuccessfully, to lever himself from the leather Wingback chair which seems to have eaten him.

How exactly this particular piece of furniture has managed to get such an impressive grip on him is way beyond the hops-addled Hunter now wiggling his ass and digging his nails into the arms of the chair. “It’s not funny, Sammy.”

Sam would vehemently disagree but the mouthful of beer he’s having trouble swallowing is preventing him from openly mocking his pie-eyed brother. Instead of saying, “Dude, I’ve seen turtles on their backs take less time to right themselves.”, he’s reduced to snorting loudly and spraying saliva laced alcohol at Dean.

Copping a face full of backwashed beer does nothing for Dean’s agility and he loses his grip on the chair whilst swiping at his face with his sleeve. “Ewwwwww, Sammy, that’s disgustin’.”

Sam’s finally empty mouth quirks up into a lascivious smile before he leans a little too far forward and topples off the couch, landing neatly at Dean’s flailing feet. Rolling over onto his back, Sam looks up at his brother and sniggers. “You’ve had worse liquids dripping off your chin, Dean.”

Grunting and groaning and grinding his teeth, Dean manages to hook his foot around one of the chair legs and heave himself forward, only for the world to tilt and his face to come into swift contact with the floor.

Sam, still making sweet sweet love to the carpet beneath his back, flails his arms outwards, moving them in a haphazard arch until he manages to smack his brother in the face.

“Son of a _bitch_.”

“There you are!”

“Who’s idea was this, again?”

“I do believe you said _I could drink you under the table, little brother_.” 

“Well, it ain’t a table but… “

********

_Six hours earlier_

“Fuck off.”

“Seriously, Sammy, your long lanky limbs can only hold so much beer, and me, I’m a seasoned drinker. I could drink you under the table, little brother”

“Seasoned drunk, more like.”

“Ouch. Words hurt, Sam.”

“Okay Dean, I’ll make you a deal; if I outlast you, I get to fuck you, no frills or flowers, just a good old fashioned screw.”

Dean sucks on his two front teeth before clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth and raising an eyebrow at Sam, who’s smugly crooking his fingers in a ‘come on’ gesture.

Sam knows Dean far too well; for instance, the man has never been able to pass up a wager, ever. Especially not one that involved the potential humiliation of his not so little brother. “What’s up Dean, you chicken, afraid I might finally be big enough to take you?”

Dean covers over his reaction to the tone in Sam’s voice by smirking and tilting his head. “Sammy, baby, you’ve been big enough to _take_ me for years, doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy being the takee.”

“Money where your liver is, Dean. Ante-Up.”

***************

_Two hours earlier_

Dean tips his half empty beer bottle towards Sam and wrinkles his nose. “This brew taste funny to you?”

Sam papers over the sly grin fighting to free itself by looking as genuinely quizzical as possible and taking the bottle from his brother. Pressing the neck of it to his lips, Sam allows the smallest amount of liquid to trickle across his tongue before making a big show of swallowing. “Nah, maybe you’ve finally killed your tastebuds, Dean.”

Dean snatches the bottle back and downs the rest of the beer before belching and standing, wobbly on his feet and feeling like gravity is mocking him. “Gotta take a leak, be right back.”

Sam watches Dean’s ass wiggle it’s way from the room before shouting after him and reaching beneath the couch cushion he’s sat on. “ Sexy, Dean, real sexy!”

The mumbled, “You know it.”, wafting back at him tells Sam that Dean’s far enough out of his eyeline to risk another quick ‘spike’.

Unscrewing the lid of the whisky bottle - now half empty and offering the chance of getting one over on Dean - Sam pops the top on another beer before taking a long pull on it.

Filling the void in the bottle with extra strength gut rot, Sam gives it a gentle swirl and places it on the floor next to Dean’s chair.

Dean wanders back in only to almost trip over his own feet as he tries to gracefully lower himself into his seat. “Awww, Sammy, you’re always so polite.”

Snatching the open beer from the floor, he _chinks_ it against Sam’s freshly cracked brew. “Bottoms up.”

Sam almost chokes on a mouthful of beer and wipes his watering eyes, huffing out a laugh. “Isn’t that the whole point of this little braincell murdering exercise?”

*************

_Right fucking now_

When Sam and Dean are on form and not drunk off their asses, sex is a thing of beauty. When they’re three sheets to the wind and struggling to see straight, it’s a fucking disaster.

Sam’s long, luscious, usually well-groomed hair is sweaty and lank, hanging in his eyes and sticking to his red cheeks, making it almost impossible to see Dean, who’s trying desperately to find a rhythm that doesn’t involve scraping his knees raw on the scratchy carpet beneath him.

“Hold still, Sam.”

“I am, you moron, it’s you who won’t stop swaying.”

“I’m not _swaying_ I’m wobbling. You spiked my drinks, didn’t you?”

“Little bit.”

“CHEATING MOTHER FU - “

Dean’s tirade is cut off by Sam finally finding purchase and slamming himself home, almost smacking Dean’s chin into the floor. “I do believe that’s Brother Fucker.”

Dean’s uncontrollable giggling does nothing for Sam’s loose grip on his rapidly wilting libido and he finds himself dry humping Dean’s thigh, almost de-balling himself in the process.

As Sam’s eyes cross, Dean suddenly finds the thread count in the ratty carpet of the Bunker’s library very appealing and he allows himself to drop to the floor, stroking the material now making his nose itch. “You ever noticed how pretty this carpet is?”

Sam’s moments from allowing his sparse lunch to make a reappearance when he has the overwhelming urge to snuggle. 

Rising up on his knees, Sam opens his arms wide and dive bombs his brother; wrapping his long arms around the squirming body sweating beneath him. “S’okay Dean, the sex is good, but it was never my favourite part anyways.”

Dean wants to shove Sam off and tell him he’s a complete girl, but the weight and warmth of his brother laying atop him lulls the older Hunter into a sort of trance state and Dean finds himself purring and running short stubby nails along the hairy arm now squashing his nose. “You ever tell anyone I said this I’ll deny all knowledge and gut you like a werewolf, but, me too, Sammy, me too.”

The sound of two red blooded males - butt naked, completely drunk and snoring into the carpet - fills the room.

It’s at the specific moment they both fall head first into intoxicated sleep that Castiel chooses to zap into the room.

Instead of mumbling, blushing and zapping straight back out, he pulls his phone from his pocket and snaps a photo. “Crowley is NEVER going to believe this.”


End file.
